


heart-shaped box

by Imkerin



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thassarian rescues Koltira from the Undercity. Koltira is, maybe, a little grateful. If you squint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heart-shaped box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moontyger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/gifts).



"I'll never be rid of you," Koltira had said, pale green froth bubbling from his lips with every word. He's silent now, a cold motionless weight shackled at Thassarian's back, either still unconscious or pretending well, but the echo of his words lingers in Thassarian's mind, weaving around the bony clatter of his stolen mount's hoofsteps.

He shifts in the saddle, grimacing; the skeletal warhorse has a jolty, uneven gait, and the sharp knuckles of its spine dig through the thin-rotted leather, pressing into the wounds in the back of his thigh; undoubtedly Koltira is worse off still, unarmored, half-clothed, and as thin and blood-starved as he'd grown under Sylvanas's care. Dusk would have been faster, more loyal, and more comfortable, but so close to the Undercity Thassarian had thought riding his own charger too much of a risk, almost as much as gating them back to the Hold with Koltira too weak to defend himself. He's having second thoughts, now that it's well too late to do anything about them. "Not far now," he says, to himself, or the horse, or Koltira. It has much the same effect either way.

 

There's a small ruined hut, overgrown with weeds and fungus, in the far east of the glades; Thassarian had watched it for weeks between orders and never seen more than a handful of runty spiders nearby. It'll do well for them now, for the days they'll have before either of them is missed. He dismounts ties the horse to the one remaining fencepost and catches Koltira as he begins to slide sideways without Thassarian's body to support him, easing him to the ground. The horse sidesteps and whinnies at him in disgust. "You won't be the last," Thassarian tells it, and turns his back, carrying Koltira through the empty door.

Whatever furniture there once had been is long gone, of course, but there's a dusty, dry pile of straw under the last corner of intact roof that will do for a bed, and a broken jumble of wood that will do as a stand for Byfrost. Thassarian lays Koltira out on the pallet, banishing the shackles so that he flops limply over the bedding. His mouth falls open, but black clotted blood runs out of it instead of poisonous bile, so Thassarian takes it as a good sign, because, aside from that, he looks like shit. Whether from practice or experience or sheer skill, the Forsaken had worked him over a thousand times harder than the Scarlets, and Thassarian suspects Koltira had only still been clinging to un-life to spite them, and Sylvanas, and possibly himself.

The plan had come off mostly in order -- the decoy is safe in Koltira's cell, deep in the belly of the Undercity, and his own forged marching orders are resting safe on his desk at home, ready to send anyone looking for him to the ends of Pandaria. He'd had to fight a little more than he expected, and the last abomination had gotten a few more than decent swipes in, but he has enough energy left in him to pull off his gauntlets and put his hand over Koltira's chest and press some of the last of his store of runic power into him.

For a second there's nothing, silence, and then Koltira shudders under his hands, taking a deep, useless gasp as his body struggles in a parody of life, and his eyes open, dull blue. "Thassarian," he says, his voice a rough, ruined whisper, before he can even focus on him.

Thassarian smiles, his thumb skimming slowly, half-consciously over the old deathwound mostly hidden beneath Koltira's linen rags. "Good morning," he says.

Koltira's eyes track slowly from his face to the black sky visible in the gaping holes of the roof and back. Thassarian thinks he might have intended to attempt something along the lines of a return smile, but it can be hard to guess at that when Koltira's in good health and great spirits. "Sentimental idiot," he says instead, with obvious effort.

"Well," Thassarian says, "Love is in the air." He leans up to wipe the blood and dried scum from his lips with his other hand, and Koltira lies still beneath him and doesn't look away.


End file.
